Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYW1F08BES6YHM1DKHFY65

The door to The Raven's Nest groaned open, a slice of rainy London night slicing through the warm, dim interior. A gust of wind carried the smell of wet asphalt and street food inside before the heavy door swung shut, plunging the bar back into its comfortable gloom. Silas Blackwood looked up from polishing a glass, his hazel eyes taking in the new arrival. A woman, shaking water from a black jacket, her hair plastered to her forehead. He placed the glass on the bar, its base making a soft, definite sound. She moved towards the bar, her steps sure despite the slick floor. The low light caught the side of her face, the straight line of her dark hair. She slid onto a stool a few down from the only other patron, a man hunched over a newspaper at the far end of the bar. The air hummed with the quiet jazz drifting from hidden speakers. “What can I get you?” Silas’s voice was a low rumble, smooth as the aged whiskey he kept on the top shelf. The woman pushed her wet hair back from her face. “Just a whiskey. Whatever you recommend.” She didn’t look at him, not at first. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the old maps tacked to the dark wood walls, the black-and-white photographs of long-dead people in forgotten places. It was a museum of someone else’s life. Then her eyes settled on the bar, on the man standing behind it. Her breath hitched, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound. Silas had already turned to grab a bottle, his movements practiced and economical. He set a heavy tumbler on the polished wood and poured a measure of amber liquid. When he turned back, he found her staring. Not at the drink, but at him. Her face, a moment ago open and weary, was now a mask of disbelief. “Silas?” He froze, the bottle still in his hand. Her voice. It was different, older, but it was hers. He let his gaze truly focus on her for the first time, past the rain-soaked traveller to the person beneath. The bright blue eyes. The sharp intelligence in them. He hadn’t heard that name, his real name, spoken in that tone in over a decade. Only Rory had ever called him that. “Rory Carter.” He set the bottle down with a click. “As I live and breathe. I heard you’d run off to the big city.” A small, tight smile touched her lips. “Not much of a run. More of a stumble. You… you own this place?” “I do. The Raven’s Nest. Suits me, don’t you think?” He gestured vaguely at the walls, at the shadows clinging to the corners. “It’s quieter than the old life.” “The old life.” She repeated the words, her gaze dropping to the glass of whiskey. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” “It’s what I call it.” He pushed the glass towards her. “On the house. For old times’ sake.” She wrapped her fingers around the tumbler, the condensation cool against her skin. “I’m not sure the old times are worth celebrating.” “Maybe not. But they’re worth remembering.” He leaned against the back bar, his bad leg a dull ache. He watched her take a sip, her eyes closing for a second. The scar on her left wrist, a tiny crescent moon, was visible as she held the glass. He remembered the day she got it, falling from a tree in his back garden, trying to prove she could climb as high as any boy. She’d been eight. She hadn’t cried. Just held up her bleeding arm and said, “Well, that was stupid.” She opened her eyes. “You look… different.” “So do you.” He let the statement hang in the air between them. The last time he’d seen her, she was a gangly nineteen-year-old with a fire in her belly and a law school acceptance letter she didn’t want. A girl who was running from something, even then. Now, sitting in his bar, she was a woman. The fire was still there, but it was banked, controlled. “I heard about Prague,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, Si.” He gave a slight shrug, his hand instinctively going to his left knee. “Hazard of the job. You learn to walk with a limp or you don’t walk at all. What’s your excuse?” Her knuckles whitened around the glass. “Life, I suppose. It has a way of… reshaping you.” “Does it now?” He didn’t press. He knew better. In his old line of work, information was a currency you spent carefully. You didn’t demand it; you waited for it to be offered. She took another, longer drink of the whiskey. “I left Cardiff. For good this time.” “I know. Eva told me.” Rory flinched at the mention of their mutual friend. “Of course she did. She always did like to keep tabs on me for you.” There was an edge to her voice now, a bitterness that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “She was worried. We both were.” Silas’s tone remained level. “You just… vanished. After Evan.” The name landed like a stone in the quiet space. Evan. The boy who had seemed so charming, so devoted. The man whose shadow had followed Rory out of the city. Rory stared into her glass, the amber liquid swirling. “He’s gone now.” “Good.” “It wasn’t… clean.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Nothing about it was clean.” Silas said nothing. He just watched her, the weight of the years settling in the space between them. He remembered teaching her how to pick a lock, how to read a person’s tells in a crowded room, how to blend into a wall. He’d seen a raw talent in her, a mind that worked in angles no one else considered. He’d thought she was meant for more than law school, more than a quiet life in Cardiff. He’d encouraged her restlessness, her desire for something bigger. He wondered, now, if he had made a terrible mistake. “I work for a restaurant,” she said, breaking the silence. “Delivery. It’s mindless. I like that.” “I can imagine.” He thought of the files he used to read, the complex webs of deceit he used to navigate. Mindless sounded like a blessing. “You live around here?” “Upstairs.” She nodded towards the ceiling. “Flat above the bar. Eva found it for me. Said it was a good neighbourhood. Safe.” A humourless smile touched Silas’s lips. Safe. The word was a joke in his world. His bar was a beacon for people like him, people who lived in the grey spaces between right and wrong. A sanctuary, perhaps, but never safe. “It’s good to see you, Rory,” he said, and he meant it. Even with the shadows in her eyes, even with the hard set of her jaw, it was good. It was a piece of his past he hadn’t realised he missed. She finally looked at him, really looked at him, her bright blue eyes searching his. “You too, Silas. You look… settled.” “Settled is a good word for it.” He ran a hand over his auburn hair, now threaded with grey. “This is my kingdom now. Small. Quiet. No one gets shot.” “Most days.” Her gaze drifted to the bookshelf that covered the back wall, the one that didn’t quite sit flush with the floor. She knew about the room behind it. He’d shown her once, when she was young and fascinated by his secrets. He saw the recognition in her eyes and felt a pang of something sharp and unwelcome. Regret. “Some things don’t change.” “No.” She finished her whiskey and set the glass down on the bar with a soft thud. “Some things just get better at hiding.” She stood up, pulling her jacket tighter around her. “I should go. Let you get back to your kingdom.” “Rory.” He stopped her before she could turn away. “If you ever need anything.” She paused, her back to him. For a long moment, she didn’t move. The jazz swelled, a lonely saxophone filling the silence. Then she turned her head slightly, her profile sharp in the dim light. “I know where to find you.” She gave him a final, fleeting glance. “It’s good to know some things really don’t change.”